


A Bloody Proper Ring

by headsupimhere



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: First Meetings, Fluff, Human AU, M/M, The Stanley Hotel, Tour, ghoooosts, only a one-shot at this point but i'm up for writing another chapter of these dorks being dorks, tour guide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-05-16 20:20:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19325401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/headsupimhere/pseuds/headsupimhere
Summary: Alfred takes the famous Stanley Hotel tour with (score!) a cute tour guide.





	1. Chapter 1

The Stanley Hotel. One of the seven wonders of the world (or at least it  _ should _ be, in Alfred’s opinion — ghosts are  _ cool _ and are totally part of history, so they should be celebrated, and this is one of the most haunted hotels in all of America), localised entirely in the Rockies as a tourist attraction. There are ghost sightings and connections almost every night, and if the prices weren’t  _ so high _ , Alfred would maybe,  _ maybe _ , think about staying the night in one of them. Maybe. But only if he can stay with Mattie.

He remembers watching both versions of  _ The Shining _ when they first came out (though, he had to watch them at home, because he felt so much better splurging on popcorn —  _ not  _ because he was once kicked out of a horror movie for screaming like a little girl while at the theater), then staying up all night with Matthew, who was trying his best to calm Alfred down with cartoons and other shows. And of course he’s seen  _ Dumb and Dumber _ , who hasn’t?

After figuring out the hedge maze, he stands before the guest building and stares, his mouth agape. The structure before him is beautiful to put it lightly, and somehow the complement of the red roof against the pure white walls is just perfect to him. The decor is stunning, and the six American flags out front are definitely a nice touch to someone who is absolutely enamoured with history, especially when it has to do with the good ol’ USA — after all, Alfred was born and bred with all-American blood!

After snapping a picture of the place for good measure, he heads up the stairs, hopping a few as he excitedly bounces towards the entrance and tugs the door open to hold steady for a gracious older woman with whom he would have crossed paths either way. She looked to be in her fifties, but the smile she sends Alfred’s way makes her look much younger and more vibrant. Alfred seems to have that effect on people.

Stepping in and shutting the door behind him, he wanders a bit before asking one of the gift shop clerks where he’s supposed to go, thanking her with a wink and a smile when she tells him, before setting off in that direction. He turns the two corners and descends the short flight of stairs before following a sign and throwing a smile at the woman sitting at the desk, hunched over a book. Ironically, Alfred catches a glimpse of the cover and grins when he sees it’s one of King’s classics. Granted, he’s not an avid reader by any means, but he knows that the man’s got a lot of best-sellers, and he’s gotta respect the man for that, if nothing else.

“Can I help you, sir?” She looks up from her page, catching Alfred’s eyes with how she dog-ears the page and sets it aside. He remembers being smacked on the back of the hand with a ruler for doing that once in class.

“Yeah, I think so! I’m here for the four-forty tour,” he smiles as she taps on a laptop a few times, glancing up and at the screen behind her, which is playing a timelapse of the hedge maze being dug out and planted.

“And can I get your last name?”

“Jones.” He looks back down at her, watching her lift a roll of stickers and tear a sheet off with a single red oval, handing it to him.

“All right, you’re all set. Just wear that somewhere visible on your shirt, and you’ll be in this room here,” she gestures to a door and he thanks her, peeling the sticker and dropping the backing into the trash can by the desk as he lines up the sticker and pats it flat on his shirt. He moves into the room and takes a seat, seeing a few others having quiet conversations about anything and everything, pulling out his phone to look over the picture he’d taken earlier. He tunes in and out of peoples’ conversations, observing their accents and topics of conversation, before focusing on the documentary being played for them.

One moment, Alfred’s idly listening to the documentary about the Colorado River, and the next, the lights flicker out above the lot of them, leaving them with only the light of the screen. The first reaction almost everyone has is to look back at the door, now shut, until the tension in the room is lifted with the lights being turned back on.

“Did I frighten you?” A blonde man says, dressed in a pale green button-up and black skinny jeans as he trots over to stand beside the television screen, still playing. He retrieves a remote from behind it and pauses the film, setting it back and smiling modestly at the crowd in the room. “I hope not; I’m only trying to set the mood.” He clasps his hands together in front of him, and Alfred’s surprised that it has even taken him this long to notice the green of the man’s eyes. If he weren’t seeing them inside of the man’s skull right now, he’d think they were clean-cut emeralds from one of the jewellery stores just down the mountain a bit.

After a brief introduction and a few loose rules, Alfred learns that the man’s name is Arthur, that he’s (unsurprisingly) from London, and that he’s never seen either version of  _ The Shining _ , but he’s read all of King’s books and knows everything there is to know about the Stanley, from its history to the very names and scents of some of the spirits. As he speaks, he makes a few lighthearted jokes, though that stereotypical sarcastic tone is all over his voice. And that’s not to mention the accent, which Alfred is sure he could listen to all day. It would make even the most boring of things interesting.

Arthur asks the group where they come from, and Alfred’s surprised to find that so many people come from such faraway states to see this place — well, then again, he  _ was _ the one thinking about petitioning to make it the eighth wonder of the world. When Arthur looks to Alfred, the American cracks a giant smile and breaks out with a “New York, New York, baby!” without knowing it. This causes Arthur to let out a gentle laugh and nod.

“Quite the true American, I can see,” he glances at Alfred’s classic ‘I <3 NY’ shirt, earning a grin.

“You know it.” And Arthur moves on to the next before leading the group of them outside to the gazebo to teach them all quite a bit about Freelan Oscar and Francis Edgar Stanley, much of which Alfred is happy to learn more and more about. He thought he knew so much more than he did, but it came to him as a surprise that he didn’t. It was much the opposite, really, and he took a lot of joy in learning more from this man with the British accent and impeccable eyebrows that had been somehow hiding away under an equally-impressive blonde fringe.

Everything had been going just fine until they reached the stairwell, and Alfred felt a heaviness setting in on him as he ascended those stairs with the rest of the group. He recalls back to when Arthur had mentioned hollering for him if they began to feel lightheaded, and with the altitude increasing even further with the number of stories, he has to hold onto the bannister to keep himself from nearly toppling over the railing.

He’s able to keep his eyes on Arthur, still listening, but his thoughts linger, and eventually, he finds himself imagining figures in the dark shadows of the halls, forcing him to snap his eyes away and look at Arthur. Arthur makes eye contact for a moment, almost as if he’s checking to make sure Alfred’s all right, before moving on and leading them down a hallway. As they’re walking, Alfred can smell a faint sweetness, and it gets heavier as he moves with the rest of the group, now tailing rather than damn near leading as he makes subtle conversation with Arthur.

Pastries.

The others turn their heads and start sniffing the air, too, so he’s sure he’s not going insane or having a stroke, then Arthur stops them and smiles. “That would be Pierre.” The guests look to Arthur as he smells the air, then nods. “We’ll speak more on him later, but it seems he’s made an appearance to us now.” Arthur turns on his heel and continues along, still speaking over his shoulder. “Feel free to compliment his cooking on the way past — but don’t get too overzealous, he doesn’t need another reason to be called the ‘Frisky Biscuit’.” As Arthur says this, Alfred feels suddenly like the room is pushing in on him, but the walls are completely still, and there’s no possible way it could be doing what it feels as if it’s doing.

And then it’s gone, and Alfred’s left to catch up with the rest of the group.

They’re back to the main floor in no-time, Arthur still diligently leading and answering questions as they come along. It’s rather impressive that he’s gotten so used to the climate and altitude — after all, he came from almost sea-level to a mile and a half above it. Then again, he’s probably lived in Colorado for quite some time, if not somewhere nearby, with how confident he is in his words and the way he leads the tour.

Arthur gestures for the guests to move around the corner and back down to the lower level before Alfred completely freezes. Maybe it’s the altitude getting to him, but he doesn’t immediately scream and jump into the nearest person’s arms — which would be Arthur, if that were the case — like he usually would. He simply stares at it, unrelenting in his gaze.

As Alfred descends the stairs, he catches Arthur’s shoulder, running a hand through his hair as he stares up at the window cresting the next floor, in which there is a face staring directly back at him. It looks human, but there’s hardly any colour to the figment’s face, if any at all.

“I think I might cut off, it’s… yeah.” Arthur looks up to the window out of pure curiosity and his eyes widen, a smile cracking onto his face. “Too much.”

“It seems they like you. I haven’t seen anything like that in years, and even then...” Arthur turns back to Alfred, looking up at him and noticing that his words aren’t improving anything. “Though, as long as you’re feeling all right, the tunnel system is the last stop for our tour this evening, and I can get you some water if you need or desire it,” Arthur watches the last person turn the corner and move to where he’d instructed them to go. “You’ve been a brilliant audience member so far, and I assume you would hate to miss this last bit.” Alfred looks at Arthur and takes a breath, giving him a once-over as he has the chance, then nods.

“Okay, I can handle a few more minutes,” Alfred nods, following Arthur down to the tunnel system door. He stands near the front again, listening intently to Arthur as he describes the tunnel and warns about the few-inch drops to either side of the pavement.

As the man is speaking, looking Alfred in the eyes a few times — assumedly to make sure the American is all right, Alfred feels something press ever-so-slightly against his back. It’s almost unnoticeable at first, but as it moves from his lower back to his shoulder, the pressure increases, and his shoulders rise as he tenses, hands fisting at his sides. Arthur seems to notice it, his speech faltering for just a moment before he composes himself again and opens the door for the tour.

Alfred’s legs don’t move, still feeling some pressure, now cold, against his left arm and moving toward his hand. There’s a voice in his ear, quiet but comprehensible, and it whispers something with his name in it before there’s a sharp, icy pressure against his ring finger and he finally moves, shaking his arm and taking a step back while shutting his eyes and trying to keep himself from disturbing the other guests with the piercing scream his vocal chords are begging to produce.

A warm hand touches his wrist after a moment, and he opens his eyes to see Arthur with a concerned expression on his face.

“Are you feeling unwell?” And somehow, that voice grounds him. It brings a little smile to his face, even when he feels as if he’s losing it. Alfred supplies a simple shake of the head in the negative and Arthur glances around, supposedly for someone to grab him a glass of water. Though, if someone else gets it for him, then certainly, Alfred will be left alone after they’ve brought it to him, and he’s not sure if he’ll make it without a calming hand on his shoulder — or in this case, wrist. “Come with me,” Arthur says, moving towards the stairs and gesturing for Alfred to sit down, which he does without a second thought. He already feels as if he’s going to pass out, and he’d much rather take a fall from sitting height than he would standing.

Arthur seems to know that Alfred needs that connection, moving his hand to Alfred’s shoulder as he beckons someone over. Alfred recognises her from the tour desk, and although he hears very little of what they say, the woman walks towards the tunnel and shuts the door behind her, and Arthur sits down beside him. “Quite the perplexing things, aren’t they?” Arthur says, and Alfred looks over to him, seeing his calm smile as he looks Alfred over.

“Shouldn’t you be finishing up the tour? I mean, I can handle myself almost as well as anyone else, and I’m probably just… hallucinating with the elevation and everything.” He knows that’s not what he truly thinks, because he knows what he felt there and on the fourth floor; he knows what he saw in the window. Arthur even saw that one, too. Alfred speaks as if he doesn’t want Arthur there beside him, but the truth is strictly the opposite. Arthur lets out a sweet chuckle, and Alfred’s heart melts. As if he thought he couldn’t find something else to look forward to with this man.

“I’ve sent a colleague in to finish, and I’d like to kindly disagree with that notion — ah, I don’t believe I caught your name.” Alfred laughs to himself a bit, still producing an uncertain and nervous laugh as he tells himself not to tease the man with an ‘I don’t believe I dropped it’.

“Alfred; Alfred F. Jones.”

“What does the ‘F’ stand for?”

“I’d tell you, but it’s not quite kid-friendly,” he gestures with his eyes over to a couple of children jumping from tile to tile. Arthur lets out another laugh, and Alfred congratulates himself on another job well-done. “Franklin. Not all that exciting, I know.”

“No, quite the contrary. I fancy it suits you,” Arthur nods, smiling a bit. “But, Alfred, you shouldn’t have such little faith in what you are unfamiliar with. What you experienced was very much real, and although you may be hesitant to believe me, it’s true.”

“Next you’re gonna go on and tell me you see dead people.” Arthur chuckles softly, shaking his head.

“No, not quite.” Arthur lifts his hand away from Alfred, likely seeing it as inappropriate to have kept it there as long as it was, but Alfred silently wishes it had stayed longer. It seemed, though, that even Arthur’s presence was enough to keep Alfred grounded, even just a few metres from where he’d been basically felt up by a ghost. “What do you like to do, Alfred? It seems you like history, but why’d you come here, of all places, if you’re clearly not all too fond of spirits? After all, we’re known to be one of the most haunted spots in America.”

“Well, I’m somewhat of a cartographer,” Alfred lifts a hand and scratches the back of his head. “Kind of a dumb job now that phones and computers are taking over the world — which, I mean, is cool and all, but you can get everything on phones, and no one needs maps anymore unless it’s on a little screen.” Alfred speaks with his hands for emphasis, shaping out the approximate size of a phone screen before shaking his head and dropping his arms to his lap. “I should go into photography or something more… digital.”

“I don’t see why,” Arthur adds in a thoughtful tone, looking away and at the dollhouse to Alfred’s left. “Many people still use maps. Granted, they may be a little older than many of the audiences you’d like to sell your craft to, but they’re still around, and some would pay top dollar for a good topographical map.”

“Speaking from experience, I see,” Alfred pokes fun, but Arthur nods and lets out a small laugh.

“Actually, yes.”

“I knew it.”

“Knew what?”

“I saw the way you dressed and knew right away that you were an old man.” Arthur looks up at Alfred and those eyebrows settle above his eyes in two flat lines.

“And what part, exactly, of my attire is so particularly aging?” Alfred snickers at the look he’s given, but he sees a hint of a playful tone in there somewhere.

“Well, I haven’t seen anyone wear loafers in a  _ long _ time.”

“What would you replace them with, then?”

“I dunno,” Alfred leans over a bit to look at his shoes, then slowly sits up as he scopes out the little details all over his person. “Try a pair of converse. That’ll bring you about twenty years younger.” Arthur looks Alfred over once before raising an eyebrow.

“How old do you expect I am, Alfred?”

“Early twenties, probably, but with your clothes you’re looking more late thirties, early forties.” Arthur’s eyes widen and he blows a breath through his lips, blinking a few times. “How close?”

“Precisely. I’m twenty-three.”

“How old d’you think I am?”

“Not far behind, perhaps nineteen? Twenty? Your face looks young, but you are clearly knowledgeable on a subject not many, at least younger, would care to observe.”

“Nineteen,” Alfred smiles. “What do you like to do, Arthur? Other than study the arcane arts and read?” He really wants to listen to Arthur talk some more. Something about the combination of that smooth voice and alluring accent is just so interesting and  _ hot _ .

“Oh, well… I suppose I’ve never really thought about it before. At least not all too deeply,” he says, before his lips break out in a modest smile. Alfred would be lying if he said he couldn’t spot the pure glee in Arthur’s eyes, though. “I paint every now and again.”

“What sort of things?”

“Well, I… I hate to sound like an old man, but I love nature; the rich greens and deep reds it provides. Unfortunately, the little window in my apartment does nothing to satisfy my need for inspiration, so none of my works are all that good, being without reference.” Arthur shrugs, looking off into nowhere.

“So nature’s your muse, huh?”

“Yes, I suppose you could say that,” Arthur smiles, looking up to Alfred. The sapphire blues behind the glass of his lenses seem to be glistening rather beautifully, even if they’re only reflecting the artificial light above them. What he’d give to steal Alfred as his muse; to paint from a reference — though, he doesn’t wish to keep Alfred waiting for an artwork that could possibly be awful.

“What’s next on your list of books to read?” Alfred seems to be feeling better now, even after being clearly spooked by the curious supernatural being. Arthur tilts his head a bit, humming in thought. Perhaps he should’ve planned his next literary journey by now. He’s nearing the end of  _ One Hundred Years of Solitude _ , and as much as he loves the book, he knows he’ll be bored without a new story to follow it.

“I’m not quite sure,” Arthur places his hands in his lap, an idle smile on his face now. “Did you have one in mind?” Alfred shakes his head, which catches Arthur by surprise, silently having hoped that Alfred had a work of art he’d loved and would care to pass onto Arthur.

“Nope,” Alfred grins. “But you know, I think the library might.” He’s got a mischievous look in his eyes, and even Arthur picks up on it, after knowing Alfred for all of an hour and a half, if even. “If you wanted to go grab some coffee — or, tea, I suppose — then pop into a library with me, I’d love to help find you a new story. Though, I have to warn you, some of the books I read can get a little awesome, and if that’s just too much for you, well,” Alfred makes a clicking noise out of the side of his mouth with his tongue, causing Arthur to laugh.

“I’m sure they can.”

“They do! Zombies and aliens and wizards, dude, you name it!” Alfred’s volume rises as he gets more excited, and Arthur has to glance around before letting out a joyous laugh and lifting his hands, nodding.

“Alright, alright. I believe you.”

“Then, maybe, we can head out to the nearest park and you can read it to me.” Alfred gets this lopsided grin on his face. “Y’know. Being in nature and stuff. Besides, I get to hear you talk more.” Arthur smiles more as he watches Alfred’s eyes lower to his own, seeing those eyebrows rise and lower a few times as if they’re pulled on strings like marionettes.

“That sounds lovely.” Alfred wonders if Arthur’s got someone to go home to. Granted, Arthur had said ‘my apartment’, and not anything insinuating otherwise. On the other hand, though, Alfred should never assume. He’s made that mistake once, and although it was a mistake made far in the past, he’d learned his lesson that day, and he doesn’t need to be taught again.

“And, I mean,” here goes nothing, “if it makes you more comfortable, you can bring your boyfriend, or girlfriend, or spouse, or whatever. I’m up for anything.” In reality, he’s not — he just wants to make sure he’s not coming on too strong from Arthur’s perspective. He knows he can be a lot all at once. A nice shade of crimson passes onto Arthur’s face and he lowers his gaze to his hands, now fidgeting in his lap.

“Well, I would certainly take you up on that part of your offer, Alfred, but…” Arthur laughs shyly. Alfred can’t ignore the thought of it being cute, even as he tries to suppress it. Sometimes something like that takes someone completely by surprise with just how cute it is, and for Alfred, it absolutely did. “Regrettably, I’ve been single for more… more years than I can count, as unsurprising as that may be.”

“Then it’ll just be you and me! It’s a date, then!”

“A-a date? Now, hold on just a moment, Alfred, I’m not— well, I don’t think it’s quite— w-well, it’s rather rude to just,” Arthur stumbles over the ‘a’ sound for a moment, “assume that one is homosexual! Especially when we’ve only just met!” It’s less of a scolding tone, but from the attempted look on Arthur’s face, it is meant to be. It comes out as a flustered complaint more than anything else.

“You think I mind?” Alfred looks Arthur in the eyes, and all is silent for a moment, aside the rapid thrumming of Arthur’s heart beat, racing in his chest. Alfred looks so serious, though there’s still a playful smirk in those eyes. “I mean, I’m not one to judge, is all.” He sits back against the steps, elbows resting slightly on the step behind them.

“And  _ why _ might that be?”

“I’m gay.”

Alfred shrugs his shoulders as he says it so matter-of-factly. He’s come to accept it, why shouldn’t someone else, not in his shoes, have to have it hidden from them? It’s his life, and he’ll do whatever (and whomever) he damn well pleases! Arthur shakes his head, looking away and mumbling, “Bloody figures.”

“So, Art,” Alfred leans forward a bit to catch Arthur’s attention again, seeing as his eyes are now turned away. “How’s Sunday sound? Gives you a couple of days to think it over, though I  _ know _ you wouldn’t pass up the chance to go on a date with me,” Alfred can hear Arthur mumble something, but he shakes it off. “I mean, who would?”

“Was all of this just pretend, then?” Alfred begins to sense a genuine anger, though it’s not as strong as anger itself — it’s more of an ‘I’ve been made a terrible fool’ anger, with the British accent and everything. “Acting like you were scared?”

“Oh, no.” Alfred assures him, grinning. “Not all of it, at least. I mean, even  _ you  _ saw the creepy face in the window up there. But you’re pretty cute.”

“Cute is  _ not _ a word I would use to describe myself, Alfred, but thank—”

“Then you just haven’t seen yourself in the mirror,” Alfred smiles, honestly surprising himself with how smooth he’s being after that fright just a while ago. It seems, even with Arthur near him, he feels like he’s safe (that doesn’t mean that he can’t protect Arthur, though, because he’s still the hero!).

“I suppose I won’t be able to change your opinion, then,” Arthur sighs, but not out of actual exhaustion or disappointment. There’s still a smile on those lips, nervous as it may be, especially accompanied by the lightening red still spread from his nose to the tips of his ears.

“So… is Sunday a deal?” Alfred speaks slowly, a smile creeping onto his face as his eyebrows rise to encourage Arthur’s answer. Arthur looks over at Alfred again, shaking his head and letting out a breathy laugh.

“Yes, yes, Alfred, Sunday’s a deal.” Alfred clamps a fist and pulls it down towards the ground, biting his bottom lip. The whole motion isn’t meant to be all that subtle, and it’s not. He’s excited — why wouldn’t he be, after scoring a date just like that? It’s no dinner, but sometimes that’s even more romantic. Besides, he’s totally excited to hear more of that British accent reading over some wordy novel.

“Oh, can I get your digits?”

“My digits?”

“Y’know, phone number? Telly-phone?” Arthur shakes his head and laughs. Not even close. He reaches into his pocket as Alfred does, but furrows his brows.

“If you could put it in there for me, it’d be much easier for the both of us,” he unlocks the phone with a passcode — even Alfred uses the fingerprint scanner, but to each their own — and hands it to Alfred, letting him have his way with it. Alfred sticks his tongue out through the side of his lips as he types it in, then hands it back.

“Text me, call me,” Alfred smiles, slipping into an awful English accent, “gim’me a bloo’y proper ring,” Arthur sends a fake scowl Alfred’s way, then looks down at the contact and smiles before feeling lips and the slight cold from a corner of framed glasses tough his cheek, and Alfred’s already bounding off, grinning and waving. “Catch you later!”

Arthur sits there with a dumbfounded look on his face for a moment before waving gently and looking back down at the contact. A bloody proper ring Alfred requests, and a bloody proper ring he’ll get.


	2. Chapter 2

Or… not.

It takes Arthur until his lunch break on Sunday to finally send a message to Alfred after thinking about exactly what he wants to write. What if the number he was given is wrong? Alfred wouldn’t lead him on like that, would he? He doesn’t seem like the type of person to do that sort of thing. Besides, the whole kiss-on-the-cheek thing would be a little overboard if that were the case, right? He doesn’t seem to be the type to go overboard— no, he definitely seems to be the type to go overboard. But that would just be plain rude, wouldn’t it? And even Americans aren’t  _ all _ that bad. That doesn’t mean Arthur isn’t a cynic and doesn’t believe that anyone can be out for themselves when they seem to have other, more selfless motives. Nonetheless, he can never be certain, so he decides to keep it as formal as he can — not that he  _ would _ send anything other than something remaining completely formal — until he knows, at least, that it’s Alfred.

So he types one out, and it ends up being a few words short of an essay. He doesn’t know how it gets there, but he only realises it when he’s on his third paragraph of excuse after excuse for not messaging sooner, and ends up deleting the whole thing.

Trying again, he ends up with another two paragraphs and completely deletes it again. After staring at his phone for a solid fifteen minutes (while still looking up now and again to glance around the visible segment of the mountain range), he types out a simple message:

_ Is this Alfred? x _

And hits send before he can tell himself not to. The response is quick, surprising the Brit as he lifts his phone from the table and looks at it. Even the sound of the buzz against the wooden surface created some sort of feeling in his chest. A moment of thought causes him to settle on it being a simple fear of the recipient  _ not _ being Alfred, rather than any other possible option.

_ Jones here! What can I do ya for? _

Arthur smiles at the simple message, and he can almost hear it in the American’s voice, tone and everything. He sets his cup down and lifts his phone with both hands, a soft grin on his face as he replies, the ‘better to keep it formal, right?’ idea flying directly out the window with Alfred’s innocent comment.

_ Rather straightforward, but I’ll see what I can arrange. x _

Satisfied with his reply, he sets his phone down again, but leaves the screen on in case Alfred replies again as quickly as he did — and he certainly delivers on that front.

_ Art? Is that you? _

_ It is. x _

_ Oh, I knew you’d reply at some point, I mean, I was thinking that you weren’t going to, but then I thought, ‘Hey, no! He liked you!’ and I felt better. Anyway, how’s your day going? Still on for today? (; _

_ I’m glad you have such a fine relationship with yourself that you’re able to pat yourself on the back once and awhile. All is well, I’m on lunch. I don’t believe anything has come up for me to say otherwise, so yes, we’re still ‘on’ for today. x _

_ How’s 2 sound? _

After a quick glance at the time, Arthur’s assured that he’ll be off by then. One more tour for the day, and he’s off.

_ That sounds brilliant. x _

Arthur leans back in his seat after hitting send, lifting his sandwich and taking a bite. It’s a warm day out, and it doesn’t look like there are any clouds in the sky, so hopefully the weather will be kind to the both of them and will not rain them out. The worst thing Arthur could possibly do is allow water to damage a book — much more a library book. The buzz of his cell is enough to tug him out of that horrific image.

_ Why do you keep sending the ‘x’? _

Arthur smiles.

_ It’s meant to signify ‘kiss’ as in ‘xoxo’, where ‘o’ represents a hug. _

The response is immediate, almost as if Alfred had already typed it out and simply sent it as soon as he saw that Arthur replied at all.

_ You mean you want to kiss me? Rock on, dude! xxxxx _

Even without the American there to be so teasing and boisterous about every topic, Arthur can hear everything he types his voice.

_ Take me on a date first, you. x _

_ Already one step ahead of ya! _

That message brings a larger smile to Arthur’s face and he glances around to make sure no one is staring at him as he grins so ridiculously. He sighs and looks at the message for a minute or two before responding.

_ Well, lunch is coming to an end here soon, I’ll see you at the library? x _

_ You got it, babe! Cya there! xxxxx _

Standing from his chair, he slips his phone into his pocket and gathers up the rest of his things before heading back to work.

It’s a quick day, but eventually, he’s able to get back to his car and fix himself up a bit. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it to the right, then shaking it out and trying it to the left. It doesn’t look good either way, so he huffs and lets it fall naturally. He then fixes his collar, tightening his tie. Looking at it for a moment, he wonders if he should look a little more laid-back, and pulls it looser again. It’s a trip to the library for God’s sake, not to an impossibly-overpriced restaurant.

But it’s still a…  _ date. _ He should look nice for Alfred.

The tie is tightened again.

Only fifteen minutes pass and Arthur’s arrived at the library, sitting outside in a silent car as he scans the windows. It’s only 1:53, but he doesn’t want to be early by any means… until he spots Alfred sitting inside, idly flipping through what looks to be an atlas with a giant grin on his face. From his position, he can see that Alfred’s wearing a coloured t-shirt with an open white short-sleeved button-up, and he can’t help but get his fill of staring. It’s ungentlemanly and unbecoming of him, but it’s almost a thing he provides for his subconscious mind. It wants what Alfred has to offer, and if Arthur’s not willing to see what that may be…

He pulls himself from his car a few minutes early, figuring that if Alfred’s made himself as comfortable as he has, then he should join in on the fun. Besides, the sooner they catch up, the sooner he can get that next book, and the sooner he can start reading it.

 

Alfred looks up to see Arthur walking towards the door, one hand in the pocket of a tan trench coat that is a little too big, but is incredibly flattering in one way or another. Alfred notices those green eyes on him for only a moment before he shoots his hand up and waves wildly at Arthur, grinning. The man shakes his head and furrows his brows as he pushes into the building the rest of the way, approaching the table the American has been able to snag for just the two of them, at least for the beginning of their date — their  _ date!  _ — he’s still so thrilled for it.

“Hey! You came,” Alfred excitedly whisper-yells, sitting up taller in his seat as Arthur approaches to sit himself on the chair opposite Alfred. The American pouts a bit and looks into those pretty green eyes, leaning onto the table with an elbow. “Don’t I get a ‘Hello’ kiss?”

“Of course I did, Alfred. Did you expect something else from me?” The Englishman lifts his eyes to Alfred’s as he says that last line so confidently, clearing his throat a bit and adjusting his chair to scoot in as he attempts to hide the steady warming of his cheeks. “I believe that to be highly inappropriate.”

“Why’s that?” Alfred shuts the book he had been skimming, sliding it to the side to lean over the table further (and to get closer to Arthur). “You said you wanted to kiss me on the phone, what’s so different now?” Arthur looks absolutely dumbfounded and at a loss for words, stammering quietly before Alfred’s face splits into a grin not unlike the cheshire cat’s. “Exactly.” He exaggeratedly puckers his lips and makes a soft kissy noise, Arthur sending a glance around the library before sighing and pushing himself up from his chair, leaning over the table, and placing a kiss to Alfred’s cheek.

The American snickers when Arthur pulls himself away so quickly, those cheeks looking to have been lit on fire.

“C’mon, that was barely anything. You can do better than that.” Arthur sends a glare across the table and shakes his head, pushing out a heavy breath.

“Don’t push it.”

“So, later tonight, then?”

“We’ll see if you can behave enough to earn it.”  _ That’s not a no! _

“Oh, I’ll be the best-behaved person in the world. I am the most best-behaved-est.” Arthur takes a slow breath while staring at Alfred, then shakes his head and shuts his eyes, a small, teasing smile on his face the whole time.  _ Sweet, he’s eating it up! _

“I’m sure you are,” the Brit lets out a soft laugh before leaning a bit against the table and removing his coat, lying it over the back of the chair. Alfred takes a moment to look at the olive green —  _ is that seriously tweed? _ — sweater vest the guy’s got on, along with a tan tie over a perfectly white dress shirt, then just grins and sits up a bit. It’s not too bad-looking on the guy. After all, the vest is slimming as hell and shows off a perfect amount while still staying conservative. Perfect for a man like Arthur. “What?”

“Your clothes.”

“What is wrong with my clothing this time?”

“Nothing’s really all that…  _ wrong _ with it, it’s just that you…”

“Do I really look that old to you?” Alfred scrunches up his nose, pushing his glasses up just a smidge as he looks across at Arthur. “I’m not wearing loafers this time, I thought that’s what you said to do.”

“Tweed really ain’t doin’ it for me, either.”

“So I should only wear cotton, then?”

“Maybe just go without a vest. Loosen the tie a bit. Unbutton a button. Just let yourself, yanno, chill.”

“ _ Chill? _ ” Alfred shrugs, noticing that the bit of teasing in Arthur’s expression is almost completely gone, being easily replaced with embarrassment and something close to anger. So Alfred lets out a sigh, looking at him.

“I actually think it looks really cute on you. I’m only giving you a hard time.” Arthur looks down at the table with a contemplative expression on his face, then glances back up.

“Really?”

“Really really. I mean, you’re like, the embodiment of perfection, sitting over there just a couple’a feet from me.”

“I’m hardly perfect, Alfred…”

“Bull,” Alfred stops him, and Arthur looks up, his hand stopping in its nervous movement along his left arm. “Has anyone looked at you— just  _ looked at you _ , and told you that you are really, really cute? With your green eyes, and your adorable slightly-upturned nose, and your  _ splendid _ accent, and your little smile when I compliment you like I’m doing right now, and — no, no, don’t hide it, I like it.” Alfred reaches across the table to gently grab at Arthur’s wrist, his hand trying to cover his mouth. “You don’t look old. Your fashion sense could use a little updating, yeah, but if you like it, then by all means, do what you love, dude!”

Arthur’s silent for a long while, looking down at his hand, then at Alfred’s fingers, gently wrapped around his wrist. It’s at least a minute later that he finally moves,  _ breathes _ , even, to lift Alfred’s hand off of his arm and set it on the table. He looks Alfred in the eyes with that ‘I’m about to reject you’ face, and Alfred’s heart breaks at first, but he knows he won’t let this one go without a fight. Not this time. Not with this one. “Alfred…”

“Look, I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I just feel so passionate about it, so how could it possibly be wrong, right?” Arthur looks him in the eyes with a gentle, yet firm, gaze. He goes quiet.

“You didn’t embarrass me. Really, it’s kind of you to have said all of those things, but I… I need to make my intentions known. Is that alright?” Alfred sends a silent, gentle nod his way. “I’m not looking for a one night stand. I don’t… think I can handle that right now.”

“What?” Alfred says, letting out a little laugh. “You thought I was saying all of that to butter you up and get in your pants?”

“Well…”

“I mean, sure, but not for just one night.” Arthur cracks a smile, and Alfred grins at the progress he’s making. “I wouldn’t take you somewhere you really liked and offered to do the things I’ve offered to do if I wasn’t actually interested. Like, fancy restaurants and stuffy suits only go so far.” Alfred looks off to the side, then snaps his eyes shut and curses under his breath. “The flowers. Damn, I forgot.”

“Flowers?” There’s a little glint of something in those eyes when he repeats what Alfred says, and it only pushes him quicker into his explanation.

“Yeah, I was planning on bringing you flowers, but I rushed out so fast that I barely had time to get here.”

“And you were still here early. For me?”

“All for you, Art.” Arthur’s smile breaks out into a full grin and he covers his mouth again, looking at the table. He’s reacting like he’s just been proposed to.  _ Adorable. _

“Thank you, Alfred. Really.”

“It’s no biggie. Ain’t a hassle when I’ve got you to look forward to.” Alfred watches as Arthur shakes his head, still smiling behind his hand. “Now,” his tone’s got a completely different gusto to it as he sets his hand down on the table. “You wanna go look for a novel?” Arthur takes a moment to settle his quickly-beating heart, then stands from his chair and nods, lifting his coat and folding it over his arm.

“Come on, you.”


	3. Chapter 3

“I think this one looks pretty cool,” Alfred plucks a book off of the shelf, glancing over the cover. The island manor on the cover of Agatha Christie’s  _ And Then There Were None _ stares back at him and he flips it over to read the synopsis on the back. Arthur turns his attention away from his own digging through the shelf, looking over at the spine of the book Alfred is holding.

“I’ve already read that one.”

“Wait, really?” Arthur doesn’t verbally respond, only giving the American an affirmative hum as he returns to his hunt for a new adventure. “Isn’t this the one with, like, sixty books and a bunch of short stories?”

“Sixty-six novels and fourteen short story  _ collections _ .”

“And you’ve read them all?”

“All of the ones I’ve been able to get my hands on.” Alfred stands staring at Arthur for a moment before setting the book back on the shelf.

“Not that one, then.” He skims the spines of the stories, each one holding its own style and its own universe to explore. Alfred wonders how Arthur — especially with how small the man is — keeps all of those different tales inside while not mixing them all up. What if two characters from completely different universes had the same name? They’re not the same person at all, but what if his mind began to wander, and he started thinking the not-that-character-but-the-other-one guy was the one speaking? What if one’s a king, and the other is a cowboy, and they are really different? He guesses that all comes down to seeing that people are all human before anything else… right? Then again, he’s able to keep track of every single one of the Star Wars movies and is capable of keeping it separate from all of the Avengers movies, but those are easier. You actually see the people, while with a book, it’s just a bunch of words, and that isn’t easy to keep track of, at least in Alfred’s opinion.

“Alfred?” Arthur’s voice pokes through the thoughts like a pin through a latex balloon, all of the thoughts floating away like helium. “You’ve been staring at that one for a while now, and I can almost see the smoke coming from your ears.”

“Oh, sorry.” Alfred furrows his brows and focuses on the first book he sees in front of his eyes. “ _ Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland _ ?”

“I’ve read it.”

“ _ The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe _ ?”

“Oh, of course I’ve read that one.”

“Alright, uh…” Alfred kneels down to see the lower shelves. “Have you read…  _ The Alchemist _ ?”

“Yes.”

“ _ The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes _ .”

“I have.”

“ _ 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea _ ?”

“That one, too.”

“ _ Anne of Green Gables _ .”

“Surprisingly enough.”

“Jesus, man,” Alfred pushes himself to stand again, looking down at Arthur. “Is there anything you haven’t read?”

“Of course there is, Alfred. It’s difficult to find, but that’s why this is such an adventure for me. And I usually finish a novel,” he hums thoughtfully, “in a week or two, depending on how many tours I’ve got and how thick the book is.”

“You mean you do this every  _ two weeks _ ?”

“I certainly do.” Alfred looks at him in awe, then grins.

“That’s pretty cool, dude. But maybe we should try another section? Seems the Classics aren’t gonna get you very far.”

“They usually don’t, but it’s nice to check for titles I haven’t seen in a while.” Arthur steps away and Alfred grins, glancing towards the comic book section as they’re moving to the Adult Novel section. Maybe Arthur would be willing to read him… nah. It’s mostly pictures and onomatopoeias, so it’s hard to truly experience without looking at the page. Then again, in that accent, Alfred doesn’t even need to know it’s a superhero doing all of the  _ BANG! _ -ing,  _ KA-BLAM! _ -ing and such, because as long as he’s hearing it in that voice, it could be the most boring story ever and he’d stay awake just to listen. But Arthur wouldn’t want to read something like that, even if it is new territory and  _ actually a book he hasn’t read before _ .

It takes a moment for Alfred to realise that Arthur isn’t beside or behind him anymore, so he turns around and backtracks, finding him still standing in the Classics section and holding a book.

“Didja find one?”

“Alfred…” The American’s face falls as he hears the tone in which Arthur says his name, moving closer and placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Whoa, what’s the matter? What happened?” Arthur takes a moment to answer, shaking his head gently before looking up at Alfred. A huge weight lifts from the American’s chest when he sees that there are no tears, nor is there really much of anything sad in those eyes.

“Nothing happened, Alfred, it’s just this book, I saw it when we were walking past and it…” he shakes his head again, mouth still obviously searching for the words to say. “It reminded me of my childhood, I suppose.” Ah, that’ll definitely do it. Melancholy. But if it evokes such an emotion, whatever it may be at this point, perhaps it would be the correct idea to look for something else. Alfred doesn’t want Arthur being sad the whole time he reads it.

“How so?” Alfred reaches for the book, stopping before taking it and waiting for Arthur to hand it over so he can take a look at it for himself. It takes a moment for Arthur to give it up, but eventually, the cover comes into view.  _ Gulliver’s Travels _ .

“My… well, my mum used to read it to me when I was little. We’d go into her room at night and shut the door so no one else in the house could come in, and she’d let me curl up next to her while she read it to me.” Alfred glances up to Arthur’s face after looking over the back cover, seeing the look of pain in his eyes as he speaks. There’s also something else — anger, it looks like.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Alfred offers, but Arthur looks up to meet his eyes and smiles.

“No, I think it has been far past long enough for me to get over everything.” He takes the book from Alfred after the American approves of it and hands it back, smiling down at the cover with such a sad smile. “But, I think we should check out this book first. We can talk about that later.”

“Sounds good to me, Art.” Alfred takes a step back as Arthur gives a fond look to the cover again, then lowers it and looks back to Alfred.

“Is there anything you wanted? Atlases, perhaps? I also saw you looking so wistfully towards something earlier.”

“Oh, nah. All’s good in the hood, dude. I’m ready to go get my readin’ on — well, listenin’, I s’pose.” Arthur’s shoulders rise as Alfred keeps speaking with that southern lilt he grew up hearing. It’s an obvious change, especially with his longer vowels, but something about it rubs Arthur the wrong way. No, it’s not quite the  _ wrong  _ way, but it’s one way or another and that seems pretty wrong to Arthur; it’s setting off red-alert warnings in his mind. No one should be rubbed, be it positively or not, in any way by a bloody accent. That’s even more prevalent when it’s one of the worst accents known to man. So maybe it  _ does _ rub Arthur the wrong way — no, then again, he’s heard French accents, and while any stranger speaking with one would do wonders for it, he’s met some frightening people. And by people, he inadvertently means one person, one  _ man _ , but he prefers not to allow his mind the freedom of thinking about it for too long, lest he allow it to also wander further and give him those post-traumatic tremors he’d taken so long to get over last time.

“Art?” Arthur’s head snaps up to look at Alfred, who glances to the librarian, then down at the book. Arthur jolts, letting out a soft “Oh!” before placing the book down and shuffling through his wallet for his library card. The book’s barcode is scanned, then the card’s, and the librarian gives Arthur a slow smile. The Brit easily replaces the card into its designated slot, then lifts the book and thanks the woman behind the desk. Alfred sends a jolly smile over Arthur’s head to the woman, and her own grin brightens a little bit before he turns away and keeps his stride with Arthur’s, which isn’t all that hard with the difference in height between the two. They leave the library and Arthur begins to walk in one direction along the sidewalk, so Alfred simply follows. “You drifted off at the end there. Still thinkin’ about home?”

“Not quite home, Al,” Arthur lets out a slow sigh, hugging the book to his chest and completely missing the nickname which falls out of his mouth as if it has been doing the same for years and has simply become a habit. “But no, anyway.”

“Whatcha thinkin’ about, then?” There it is again. He’s  _ so _ pushing it. His vowels, his missing the ends of his words, his missing of words altogether. It’s not quite irritating, nor is it exciting, it’s just… rubbing. Irking, maybe, because rubbing doesn’t sound all that wonderful.

“Where did you grow up, Alfred?” The American laughs a bit, lips closed, his chuckle coming out as a joyful hum.

“Lil’ ol’ me? Well, I grew up down in good ol’ Texas, o’course.”

“That accent is bloody awful.”

“You want me to stop?” Alfred looked down at his company, watching as those impressive brows lower over the man’s eyes, then rise, then separate as one lowers and one rises, and Alfred has to keep himself from laughing at the apparent complexity of the question in the eyes of the other party. “Well?”

It comes after a long, pregnant pause, “No.”

“Then I’ll keep on goin’, darlin’.” Arthur’s shoulders rise and he looks away, shaking his head. “Anyway, I didn’t really grow up in Texas. Born and raised in N-Y-C, baby, since July fourth, two triple-o!”

“July fourth? Well, aren’t we just the picture-perfect American,” Arthur comments, and Alfred actually laughs aloud this time.

“I know I’m perfect, Artie, but thanks for tellin’ me.”

“That’s  _ not  _ what I meant in the slightest—”

“I think you’re pretty perfect, yourself.” Arthur goes silent, hugging that book closer to his chest as they approach the coffee shop Arthur was apparently leading them to. “Oh, hey! We’re here! Unless you wanna skip the drinks and get right to the fun.” Alfred pokes Arthur’s shoulder, and the Brit shakes his head, letting out a soft, nervous laugh.

“We can get them to-go, it won’t take too long, don’t worry your little mind.”

“I won’t worry, Art, I—  _ hey! _ My mind ain’t little!”

“‘Ain’t’.”

“You said you liked it.”

“I said no such thing.” Alfred stops and puts his hands on his hips, looking down at Arthur with an accusatory look.

“So then you’re sayin’ you don’t like it?” Arthur looks up at Alfred with an equally accusatory expression, one eyebrow raised to make him almost look smug.

“I don't recall saying that, either.”

“So you  _ do. _ ” Alfred leans closer, and surprisingly enough to Arthur himself, the Brit stands his ground, both brows raised now. Their noses are almost touching, but this is a game of chicken, and Arthur isn’t going to lose, no matter how much he can feel the heat radiating off of Alfred’s nose and slowly warming up Arthur’s top lip, too. Or maybe that’s all within his skin, and he’s blaming it on the rambunctious American. “Gee, you got such pretty eyes, darlin’. Like grass.”

“Grass?” Arthur feels himself begin to crack up. “That’s all you’ve got?  _ Grass? _ ”

“Well, like, a field of freshly-mowed, perfectly-cared-for grass. The type you play soccer on when it’s real hot in the middle of summer, and you have a whole lot of fun with your friends from school, just makin’ memories and enjoyin’ life. Or like AstroTurf, because that stuff is pretty green all year ‘round, no matter if you take care of it or not. But it’s not the same, really, because if you don’t put in the time and effort, then it really doesn’t feel like you did much of anything.” Arthur’s gaze lowers to the bridge of Alfred’s glasses as the American talks and continues on in an attempt to explain himself further, then follows the rim of the spectacles until his eyes drop to Alfred’s nose and eventually stray much too far. Alfred exaggeratedly puckers up his lips and makes a quiet kissy noise, and that’s when Arthur steps away, shaking his head and tightening his grasp on the book under his arms. “Aw, why’d you step away?”

“I think that was quite enough for today,” Arthur forces the words, his face slowly feeling more and more like that of an oven, and likely beginning to look more and more like a tomato. “Or at all, for that matter.”

“But, Arthur,” Alfred reaches for Arthur’s hand, catching thin, pale fingers before they slide away and the Englishman turns to enter the shop, walking slowly up to the counter. Alfred takes a moment to steady his curious mind before following, apologising sheepishly to the few others who had stepped into line as he moves up to stand next to Arthur, who is just finishing his order. Alfred throws his own order on top and catches Arthur’s wrist as he moves to pull his wallet out, Alfred impressively and show-offishly flicking his own up to remove his own card and slide it into the card reader. The barista looks far less amazed than what Alfred had expected, but with the (not-so) wonderful people of customer service, he supposes a lackluster reaction should be pretty expected of them at all hours of the day.

Stepping away from the counter, Arthur stays silent, and Alfred smiles as he removes his card and follows, hopping up onto one of the barstool chairs placed around one of the higher tables. As Alfred’s working his card back into his wallet (which, unlike simply removing one, is a task in itself, including taking out several others just to stuff them all back in at the same time), he looks up to see Arthur staring rather harshly at the table, his brows coming down in slightly-inward-tipped lines over his eyes.

“Art?”

“Arthur.” His eyes don’t lift from the table, his tone careful, yet firm.

“Right. Arthur.” Alfred gnaws at his bottom lip as he shifts in his seat to place his elbows on the table, the wallet back in its usual resting place. It seems he’s taken quite the step back from where they were earlier. Was it all because of what happened outside? But Arthur was leading him on, wasn’t he? The look to his lips and all — and the way Alfred approached it was teasing. He was far from serious. He knew Arthur wouldn’t just kiss him in public like that, no matter how much he wished the Brit would, so it was all a joke. “You okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine, Alfred.” Those arms press closer to his body, looking almost as if they’re trying to force Arthur’s chest to absorb the book altogether. Alfred lets out a quiet sigh, leaning back on his stool and just looking at the man across the table. He hadn’t meant to make it awkward, but it seems that’s exactly what he did. He’s known well in his circle of friends that he doesn’t read the emotional atmosphere well, but the tension is coming off of Arthur in droves and Alfred feels awful.

“You sure?” Alfred doesn’t want to push him too far, but really, he doesn’t want the rest of the date to feel like this if he can help it.

“Yes, Alfred. I am fine.”

“Are you mad at me?” Arthur looks up at that, seeing Alfred’s naïve, distressed face staring back at him. “I didn’t mean to… y’know, make you angry. I was just playing around.” Arthur lets out a quiet sigh.

“I know you didn’t, Alfred, and that’s…” Arthur lifts an arm away from the book to run a hand over his face. “I’m not angry with you.”

“Really?”

“Yes. That was just a little too much for me at the moment, and I’m sorry, it’s just… a lot.  _ You’re _ a lot — not in a negative way, mind you, but I haven’t had an experience like that in quite some time, and I apologise for the way I handled—” Arthur’s eyes have drifted back to the table, but they rise again to look wistfully out the window, so at the very least, it’s an improvement. Alfred lets a small smile slide onto his face, understanding.

“You’re fine,” Alfred nods, settling Arthur’s obviously ruffled feathers quite a bit. “That was definitely a little much. Sorry about that.” Arthur smiles a little as he looks back to Alfred, a pink still present on his nose and his cheeks.

“It’s not for lack of enjoying it, though, Al.” The nickname is back, and Alfred’s face splits into a giant grin, sending a wink across the table.

“Then we’ll keep it private and you won’t have to feel overwhelmed.”

“We’ll see,” Arthur leans back a bit and nods, an entertained smile on his face. Alfred’s name is called and he hops up, waltzing on over to the counter. He has just spun on his heel to return when Arthur’s name is called and he about-faces once more to pick up the little paper cup as well. Arthur’s standing by the table now, book still within his clutches. Alfred’s got his drink to his mouth as he hands Arthur’s over, nearly spitting his entire swig onto the Englishman as he doesn’t think to check how hot it is.

Alfred is able to swallow the scalding liquid without any of it leaving his mouth, but it comes with quite a lot of pain and a couple of surfacing tears, Arthur bumping his shoulder against Alfred’s side (having no empty hands to pat his back) and giving him a teasing, yet pitying, look. Alfred rolls his eyes and stands tall, lifting his spectacles to wipe the back of his hand against his eyes before replacing them. “Yeah, yeah, shut up,” is the only thing he says as he moves towards the door, pushing it open for Arthur and following him out to wherever this park may be.


End file.
